


Fledgling

by JayMor



Series: The Angst Chronicles [1]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Clary Bashing, Dios knows Simon needs a dad, M/M, Pre-Slash, Raphael Santiago Has Feelings, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, So much angst, Suicidal Thoughts, and is really sorry, but also hates himself, but more in context of neglect than intentional self-harm, but not too much bashing, honestly not a fan of her, magnus is such a dad, simon fucked up, so is Luke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 04:05:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14866274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayMor/pseuds/JayMor
Summary: Simon has betrayed his clan.Now he's out on the streets with a kill order hanging over his head. Will Simon find his way back home before it's too late, or will things go wrong before Simon has a chance to make amends?





	Fledgling

**Author's Note:**

> Set roughly after Simon sets Camille free and not at all canon compliant to the later seasons. But whatever I wanted angst.

 In nineteen years, New York had never felt as dark to Simon as it did now, the moon crowded out of the sky by roiling thunderclouds and streets ink black and glimmering with the neon reflections of buildings nearby. He tugged his leather jacket tighter around himself, for security more than warmth, not that it would’ve done much good as waterlogged as it was. For once, Simon found himself mildly grateful for his vampiric features. After all, it was much easier to be homeless in New York in September when he couldn’t feel the cold.

Clary had no idea. That much was made obvious by her texts, innocent “ _hey Simon, haven’t seen you in a while. Mom is doing a lot better now! You should come by sometime_ ”s and “ _hey Simon we’ve got a mission tomorrow night near XX club. Mind lending a hand?_ ” Simon doubted she knew about the kill order. Even though she was a shadowhunter and there was no doubt the announcement had reached the Clave. No. She couldn’t know. She would have done something if she’d heard about it—offered to go explain to Raphael or something. Clary was his friend. Clary had his back.

Simon had to believe that she didn’t know.

Otherwise, Simon would have to admit to himself, finally, that he was completely and utterly alone. And he couldn’t do that, because the illusion that he still belonged somewhere was the only thing keeping Simon alive.

Simon wasn’t suicidal. Reckless maybe, but not suicidal. He didn’t directly want to die, evidenced by the fact that he was eating—so what if it was animal blood and had about as much nutritional value for him as a bag of chips would have had for him a month ago. He would have gone to a blood bank, but Raphael had connections to most of the banks in the area that sold to vampires, and Simon was a little afraid that if he tried he’d end up with a stake in his heart instead of a bag of O negative and garlic shoved up his ass sheerly for the irony.

He’d found a secure enough place, and crevice between buildings in an alley in the middle of Brooklyn that the sun never quite managed to reach even in the middle of the day. Simon had stayed awake the entire first day he’d found it, cowering in fear and hissing when the offending yellow light came within a few inches of his hiding place. But the sun had never touched him, and the next day Simon slept, fists clenched tight around the lapels of his jacket and fangs barely protruding past his lip, the only betrayal to the hunger pangs he felt. That had been four nights ago. His last meal had been two, and the blood—cow blood he’d managed to get from a butcher he encanto-ed—did very little for Simon beyond curbing his thirst. He was weak, and steadily growing weaker.

He huddled deeper into the crevice, resolutely forcing his hunger from his mind. Animal blood was enough. He didn’t deserve anything more than that, certainly not human blood. He couldn’t become more of a monster than he already was. Couldn’t become more of a traitor. He’d betrayed Raphael already—betrayed his clan to save Jocelyn, the last piece of humanity Simon had left. He couldn’t betray that humanity now, now that it had cost him so much.

The clan. The DuMort. Raphael.  Everything that made living for the next thousand years remotely bearable.

Sure, Simon wasn’t suicidal, but at this point, he wouldn’t exactly complain if he died. Hell, Simon was almost tempted to try to break into the DuMort, if for no other reason than he’d see Raphael one more time before his former clan ripped him apart. The only thing that stopped him was his determination to never hurt his clan again, even if they weren’t his anymore and would never take him back. Simon would always consider them his. He would protect them for as long as possible, in whatever way he hadn’t when he let Clary release Camille. Part of that meant staying away, not reopening the fresh wounds of betrayal, not explaining or asking for forgiveness, not causing guilt, not allowing the clan—not allowing Raphael—to second-guess the decision to exile the fledgling with a kill order.

Simon might have accidently let sunlight hit his neck or his arm and if he let the burns bubble up and did nothing to stop them even though he could have moved away faster, well then, it wasn’t a self-imposed punishment. It was just an accident. Not that Magnus believed him when Simon told him that, limping to his flat in the dead of night a week before, right arm blistered from wrist to shoulder. The warlock _tsked_ but still tamed the burns with a wave of magic and a quiet, “you have a place here if you need it Simon. I understand.”

Simon stayed through the day and left when the sun went down. Magnus was too close to vampires, too close to Raphael to be safe. Simon couldn’t risk it, refused to put Magnus between his Downworld vampire son and the traitor stray who didn’t deserve the kindness. Magnus would fight for Simon, Simon knew it. Magnus would fight and argue and remind Raphael of how much the clan loved the fledging, and force Raphael to take Simon back, but Simon didn’t want it. He wanted to earn his way back alone, without the help of an unstoppable glittering force of nature. He wanted Raphael to want Simon back on his own.

Really, Simon just wanted Raphael.

The feelings weren’t new, but they hurt more now that Simon knew he’d never get a chance to voice them aloud. Raphael was—Raphael was may things. Simon’s savior. His teacher. His ally. His friend. And now Raphael was Simon’s enemy. Though Simon had done that bit all on his own, releasing Camille and signing an agreement with her that absolved her of all guilt.

_Oh man._

Simon straightened, craning his neck up to watch the barest hint of rose gold crest the top of the building he leaned against. Dawn. Simon’s dusk. Simon let his eyes drift shut, a slight smile on his lips, more in self-mockery than actual happiness. Then he smelled it. Wet dog.

“Luke,” Simon acknowledged, not opening his eyes. The werewolf had been dropping by fairly consistently most mornings ever since Simon started camping out in the alley. “I don’t want to stay in your boathouse. The offer is nice and all but I can’t.”

“That’s good,” replied a voice, curt and gravel-rough, “because I’m not Luke.”

Simon’s eyes flew open, finding himself face to face with a werewolf he didn’t know. The man’s lips were curled in a snarl, an angry scar stretching from his forehead down to his lip. His eyes glowed green.

The words startled out of Simon. “Why are you—?”

“Oh little fledgling,” the werewolf smiled with yellow teeth, “you’ve got a kill order.”

 _Ah._ Simon relaxed, the adrenaline fading, leaving only his weak and tired body behind. Simon wasn’t suicidal exactly, but he also didn’t fight back as the werewolf advanced, eyes flashing and body morphing, twisting into canine form. His last thought was that of a traffic light. He was in his van again on a lazy Sunday afternoon, waiting for the stoplight outside his neighborhood to change, ready to go home. His mom was making tomato soup for dinner. The light turned green. Somewhere in the distance, Simon heard a growl.

 

 

Simon came to on Magnus’ kitchen table, feeling distinctly like he’d decided to use his vampire speed to run through a barbed wire fence—multiple times. He groaned, prompting a mass of blue denim at his side to jerk scrambling away.

“Magnus! Magnus!” It was Luke screaming. “Magnus Simon is awake!”

There was a distinct sound of clattering and muffled swearing as something shattered to the floor, Magnus emerging from his living room looking more mundane that Simon had ever seen before. He wore no makeup and his hair flopped over eyes. His shirt was long-sleeved, plain and grey. He wore black briefs.

“He’s awake?” the warlock repeated, his tone adopting a strained, high-pitched note. “Are you sure he’s not just seizing again?”

“I’m positive,” Luke replied, coming back into Simon’s line of sight, this time with a glass full of a red substance that made Simon’s fangs pierce his lip with how quickly they came out. Human blood. AB positive. Simon knew that smell. It haunted him now.

Monster.

“Take it away,” Simon choked out. “I won’t drink it.”

“Sherman, darling,” Magnus’ voice was soft. “I know you don’t want to, but you’re starving yourself. You need blood to survive. Human blood. If you don’t drink it you’ll die. You don’t want to die do you?”

Simon stared at his hands, clenching so tightly little crescent moons appeared on his palms. Sure, Simon didn’t _want_ to die, but he didn’t want to live either. It was a bit of a conundrum really, and with Magnus standing so close and looking so concerned, Simon knew there was really only one answer. “No, I don’t want to die.”

“Then drink the blood Sheldon,” Magnus prompted. “Please. You can’t survive on animal blood. It’s killing you.” He took the cup from Luke’s hands, pressing it into Simon’s chest. Unwittingly Simon felt his one hands lift up to curl subconsciously around the glass. A small smile glimmered in the corner of Magnus’ eyes. “Thank you Sally. Now drink up.” Magnus fixed Simon with a stare, clearly waiting for the vampire to follow directions. Simon raised the glass to his lips, the smell alone making him feel frantic. He forced himself to drink slowly, torn between wanting to vomit and wanting to gulp the glass down and demand another. He settled for finishing the glass and placing it next to him on the table.

Luke watched, his brow furrowed. “That was better control than I’ve seen on hundred-year-old vampires.”

Magnus nodded in agreement, gesturing for Luke to follow him into a different room. Simon could hear them whispering, the fresh blood already making him feel better.

“-hat do you mean you found him getting attac-”

“-gnus, there was anther wolf there, one I don’t k-”

“-well we can’t just leave him there. Someone needs to t-”

Simon left.

 

 

The days after his run in with the werewolf and subsequent stay at Magnus’ Simon laid low, crashing in the Manhattan sewer system, positive he’d left nothing behind for Magnus to track him with and relying on the smell of the sewage to mask his presence from Luke. He wondered if Raphael knew. Part of him hoped he did. Did Raphael regret it? Did he miss him? Did the clan miss him?

There was no blood in the sewer, and as the days marched on Simon grew weak.

He slumped against the wall of the sewer, sitting on a small ledge as waste water rushed by below. The smell didn’t bug Simon anymore, not like it used to anyway. Simon wasn’t sure if that was because he’d been in the sewers too long and acclimated, or if it was because he hadn’t fed in a week and his senses were failing. He shivered lately too, because of the cold or the solitude Simon didn’t know. Simon wasn’t a solitary creature. It wasn’t in his nature. He needed to talk.

So he did. Mostly to himself.

“You shouldn’t have left Lewis,” he muttered, hands running haphazardly through his hair, “you should have stayed with Magnus, let him help. Magnus is _good_ Lewis, like Clary.” Simon paused.

“No, not like Clary,” he corrected, “Like Raphael. Magnus is Raphael’s friend. He is good. Magnus wouldn’t hurt you. Magnus wants to protect you. Magnus wants to make sure you stay alive. Alive is good Alive is—” Simon broke off with a sob, his cheeks red with tears—valuable blood he couldn’t afford to lose.

“You don’t deserve to be _alive_ Lewis. Not after Camille. Not after that. Not after you betrayed them—him. Raphael. You betrayed Raphael.” Another gasping sob ripped from Simon’s chest. “Raphael. Raphael.” Simon whimpered the name like a prayer, a vampire prayer to a sire that wasn’t his. “You betrayed him Lewis,” Simon muttered. “You betrayed—betrayer. Traitor. You’re a traitor because you traded the clan for the shadowhunters." Simon sniffled, a choked half-laugh slipping from his lips. “Traitor. Trade-er.” He giggled again, suddenly giddy. “You’re a traitor who traded your clan for Clary even though you don’t have her traits.”

Simon snorted, then quieted. “Raphael would hate that joke. He would say it wasn’t funny. That it was in ‘poor taste fledgling.’ I miss Raphael.” Simon hissed at himself. “No you don’t Lewis. You don’t get to miss Raphael. He’s not yours anymore. He was never yours. Because you’re stupid.” Simon hissed again, scratching at his arms with his nails, drawing blood. “Stupid Simon. Stupid stupid traitor Simon. Simon should just stop. Just stop Simon.” He paused, staring at his arm and the red droplets of blood glistening there. “Like rubies,” Simon whispered to himself.

“Simon.”

The vampire looked away from his arm, eyes slowly turning to face the speaker. It was a man. Short, in a suit. It vaguely occurred to Simon that a suit was an odd choice for a sewer. “Hello,” Simon greeted. “Can I help you?” He held out his arm. “Would you like some rubies?”

The figure drew closer, slowly morphing into a familiar figure, someone Simon knew he knew. “ _Dios_ fledgling.” Simon froze. He knew that voice anywhere. “How long has it been since you’ve fed?”

“Raphael?” Simon’s eyes grew wide, staring up at the man in front of him. He reached out a hand, smearing bloody fingerprints across his clan leader’s cheeks as he felt his face. “You’re—you’re real?” His looked at his hand in wonder, drawing it towards him to examine. “You’re real,” he whispered again, to himself. He looked back at Raphael. “Are you here to kill me?”

“What?” The vampire physically recoiled, as if Simon was sunlight instead of just a traitor. “ _Dios_ fledgling why would you think that?”

Simon shrugged, focusing back on the blood beading on his arm. “The kill order?” he asked. “Because I’m a traitor?”

“ _Dios, no_ fledgling.” Raphael knelt in front of Simon, carefully taking his injured arm in his hands, frowning when he noted that Simon was too underfed to heal. “I do not want to kill you, I want to take you home.”

**Author's Note:**

> First fic for Mortal Instruments. Also not gonna lie I've only seen like the first season and a half of the tv show and read the MI series like six years ago so sorry if there's anything glaringly wrong. 
> 
> Talk to me. I promise I'm friendly :)


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